


Best That You've Forgotten

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Oh And Established Relationship, Smut, that's pretty much it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John forgot a very important date and is horrified. Sherlock thinks it's the greatest thing ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best That You've Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ravenwolf36](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenwolf36/gifts).



> A cheer-up fic for my friend <3 <3

 

 

 

 

 

John Hamish Watson was a romantic. He took great pleasure in every new thing he discovered about his partner regardless of the length of time in which they were to be associated. He took great pride in working out the appropriate responses and surprising them with information they didn't know he possessed. He wasn't what most women would call tall, dark, and handsome. But instead of being bitter about his stature and features, he decided to just accept them without question. It translated well, that sort of confidence, his own brand of inherent decency, edged with some tiny infusion of... darkness. It was a kinship more than anything else, something he didn't quite understand but kept him going at his lowest. 

 

It was labeled PTSD, he was given some pills along with his required therapy regimen, but one full twenty-four hour period under the heady influence of Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective/mad scientist, and he was no longer feeling useless, no longer seeking out a corner wall against which to put his back so he could see the entire room. The only issue was that his romance ability was pushed... off kilter... to say the least. His subsequent dates usually ended, in one way or another, because of and/or within a case. Sherlock's very presence permeated every aspect of his life, culminating in a heaviness he came to recognize as guilt. He felt guilty that he didn't much mind being called home to deal with a paper cut as the offending article could just as easily have been poisonous. He felt guilty that he had a difficult time enjoying himself when Sherlock wasn't with him, during things the man would find terribly dull such as pub nights and other work related social gatherings. 

 

For a while, he even attempted to alleviate that guilt by actively seeking out non-permanent relationships. It was true that a seemingly aloof man was just what the doctor ordered for certain women who tended to be extremely attractive and, as he found, pretty broken. He was literally rolling in one-off opportunities but it was so very empty and, after a bit, he began turning women away in order to just sit in front of the telly or fire and read a novel across from his best friend.  It was at this time that he realized that filling his time with looking after his rather juvenile genius flatmate full time alleviated that strange weight. So when he had a shift at the surgery, he'd text DI Lestrade or Molly Hooper to ask if they could pop by with a cold case or a body part conducive to whatever had Sherlock's attention recently. He'd sometimes go to the good Tesco's for that raw honey that Sherlock preferred. It was way overpriced but Sherlock handled it with a level of care he didn't show much else, limiting himself to small doses on special occasions.

 

John would grumble a bit at being ordered to make tea or fetch a piece of equipment that was soiled with some anonymous substance, but he'd do it anyway. He found he was less exasperated with Sherlock in general as there were now more opportunities in which he could get him to practice his social skills. "Off" didn't mean shut down, however. For the most often advertised holidays, John would always get him something that was most appropriate to him, such as a case about a dwarf mysteriously poisoned by his Shamrock badge before they were even called in on it, a deformed rabbit foetus in preservative liquid, an historically accurate pirate costume. And, when he finally drummed up the courage to tell Sherlock how he felt about him that first Valentine's Day, he did it in what was nerve-wrackingly the most befitting way possible. 

 

He'd never in his life, forget Sherlock's reaction, once the poor man could rewire himself and move again. John had made sure to leave it open ended, to put no pressure on him to return the extra affections. He couldn't leave Sherlock if he tried. But here was scientific proof, played in  looped .gifs for the staunch scientist to see in four 8X11 digital frames. John had trained himself to focus on task, blank his mind. He employed this tactic in creating this gift. A full colour, moving picture from the front, back, left, and right respectively of John's brain, of what happened when he thought of Sherlock. There was a legend, denoting which hormones at what shades were where as John's love for Sherlock literally bloomed before his eyes.

 

So the basic premise of John's romantic nature wasn't eliminated. Just shifted.

 

And when John finally got to sleep after twelve hours of stake outs and street brawls, about four hours before he had to get up for a five hour turned eight hour shift at the short-handed surgery, he hardly knew what date it was outside of scribbling it in the appropriate place on the endless charts. For the first time, he understood a little about how Sherlock deleted things, as, as soon as he signed and dated the last of the paperwork, he could no longer recall at all what it was. He'd shrugged, thought  _Is that how that works?_  and went on home, only having to go back one stop after having fallen asleep on the tube.

 

He opened the door and sighed at the stairs. This would take a while. Psychosomatic or no, he faced the fact that he was getting up there in age and his leg was aching almost as much as his shoulder. He finally got to the sitting room door and pushed it open as it was already ajar. A jolt of adrenaline caused him to slam it shut behind him, his briefcase slipping from his fingers to thump onto the floor. John whimpered low in his throat, so tired he wasn't aware of whether or not his thoughts were being spoken aloud. 

 

"Of course," his brain was saying in an exasperated manner. "Of course I'm the most tired I've ever been in my entire life and I come home to my husband looking extra-" Verbal links, spoken or thought ceased as the blue silk dressing gown slipped from said husband's pale shoulders, marked only with the light scars resulting from The Work and his time Away. They somehow managed to only enhance rather than mar. They held a sheen that danced almost iridescently in the golden firelight and John fought every last bit of exhaustion tooth and nail, so much did he want this man. However, in a sad but not unexpected twist, he was losing. And Sherlock saw it instantly. With a smile that seemed a tiny bit sad, he approached John and gave him a heated welcome-home kiss, tasting of freshly brushed teeth and his own natural flavour to which John was hopelessly addicted. This dose would have to be enough. His cock twitched feebly and even filled halfway. Had he been even a little bit more awake, he would have almost come in his pants from the kiss alone. He apologised profusely for his lack of response but Sherlock, glorious, brilliant Sherlock, understood completely, moving ahead with whatever he'd planned.

 

"John," he said, in that way that made his most common name sound as exotic as Sherlock's own, and pulled him along through the kitchen to the bathroom. During the kiss, he'd somehow already stripped John of his light jacket and hung it on the back of the door. There were candles in the loo and the refreshing lavender steam was permeated only by their light and soft music from his favourite Jazz musicians. Only...

 

"Sherlock is that you? Playing those songs, I mean."

 

"Yes, John. Do you like it?"

 

"It's... incredible. I've never heard..." The sentence could only end with a groan as Sherlock undressed him and began massaging the base of his neck where it met the rest of his body. A shiver went down his spine when an open-mouth kiss was placed at the nape of his neck right at his hairline, freshly shorn just a few days before.

 

Sherlock stepped into the bath and held out his hand, aiding his beloved as John did the same. This tub was one of the best things in which they'd invested. It took up most of the room but they both fit comfortably with their bodies completely submerged without sloshing any over the side unless their activity was especially vigorous. Such wouldn't be the case this time, however, as John nearly drowned when Sherlock attacked his back in earnest with deft hands, calloused finger pads easing the tension from John's shoulders as he leaned forward. A plate of something edible appeared, its contents unknown until in his mouth because his eyes remained stubbornly closed as his body was almost assaulted with relief. He experienced even deeper regret knowing that the moo shu was doled out and wrapped in its delicate pancake by Sherlock one-handed. Those hands. Jesus.

 

He was washed, including his hair, massaged, shaved, and hand fed. He barely missed being bottle fed as well before he insisted he could hoist his beer to his mouth himself, though it was a near thing as full relaxation drew ever closer. He kept jolting awake to finish chewing, apologising each time until he let himself be removed from the tub and dried. He summoned up enough to clean his teeth and make his way toward their bed, on which Sherlock lay, still completely nude, still in fetching firelight, still so much more than he could handle at the moment. Sherlock's face was difficult to read in broad daylight when John was fully awake and in tune with him. In groggy firelight, John could hardly read his own emotions, though he supposed they were pretty much the same.  _Sherlock_. 

 

Sherlock, who somehow got him up and over the edge of orgasm and didn't complain or try to wake him as he fell asleep still pulsing between those perfect lush lips.

 

Ten hours later, in the grey early morning, John bolted upright from a nightmare. At least, he thought it was a nightmare. He was wandering around what he came to know as how he pictures Sherlock's mind palace from the few descriptors he was able to get out of him. It looked more like the hallowed halls of some ancient academy, all long corridors and endless dark wood. He found everything in place but couldn't help thinking he was forgetting something of paramount importance. He walked through the wing dedicated to their relationship and was about to open the door to relive their wedding when he awoke.

 

He was alone, the only sounds, faint street traffic and his pounding heart. "Oh God," he whispered finally, terror squeezing increasingly tighter in his chest as he reached for his phone, charging in its usual place on the bedside table. "Oh my God! OhNoOhNoOhNo..."

John pressed the button to illuminate the screen, hoping against hope. They were dashed so extremely that he nearly started crying. It was a day too late. How could he have just... forgotten?  _How_? He understood his exhaustion but it was absolutely the worst excuse for forgetting such a momentous occasion as the day they were wed.

 

He tore out of bed, shoving on his dressing gown and flying through the empty kitchen, then sitting room, stomach heavy with regret as the rain poured appropriately down outside. Of course he wasn't there. He was probably off sulking somewhere or brooding or... maybe, just  _maybe_ , he didn't think of it either. Sherlock was never one for birthdays or major holidays unless it had to do with a case. He often 'forgot' them as John usually brought him random treats anyway and vice versa. John wouldn't ever forget that toy that... No he was getting distracted from his utter inability to be a good partner, jolted back to reality by the closing of the street door, softly, as if someone was trying to sneak.  Of course Sherlock remembered. It was the whole point of the royal treatment the night before.

 

John rushed down the steps nearly stumbling as he yanked it open to stick his head out. He turned it to the left and was met with the shapely retreating back of his one and only, head uncovered to the weather as if just asking for a cold. It was funny, John realized later, that the thought applied only to Sherlock, as he ran toward him, leaving the door open and he himself wearing nothing but thin cotton pyjama bottoms, an olive green vest, and his hastily tied dressing gown, hanging off his right shoulder. He was drenched by the time he reached Sherlock who, only a few yards away, had halted at the sound of John calling to him and turned.

 

The first thing John did was grab his head and forcefully kiss him, pushing incoherent apologies into Sherlock's warm mouth. There was a tiny bit of triumph when Sherlock's long, lean wool-clad arms went immediately around him, pulling him in tightly, but that was a drop in the bucket compared to the overwhelming guilt. This was important. Sherlock was so very important. An additional drop of joy was added to the sea of repentance at the way Sherlock was looking at him, open and adoringly, exactly zero hint of being perturbed. John fought the urge to get lost in those verdigris orbs, struck an icy bluish silver by the weather.

 

"Sherlock Holmes, you are everything. Just... everything. I'm not good at this. I'm not good at a great many things, as you well like to point out," Sherlock's little amused huff of laughter gave him a bit more courage to continue, "but I thought I was good at showing you how I feel about you. I thought that, despite there never being enough time or ways I can show you this, I was good at the repeated attempts. And I am so very sorry that I forgot about yesterday. I won't even blame it on my mental or physical state because it's no excuse and I know," he caressed those cheekbones and traced the shapely lips with his thumbs, "there's no conceivable way I can make it up to you. I can only apologise from the bottom of my heart and try harder." Another volley of kisses made him nearly dizzy as Sherlock did that thing with his tongue that promised John everything.

 

"John, I-"

 

"No." He kissed him gently again. "No, I lost track of time. I tend... I tend to do that with you, you know? You muddle up my head with how much you mean. And you can tell whether or not I'm lying." He held his face still for the scrutiny and was pleased to be kissed within an inch of his life once more, oblivious to the rain and not at all oblivious to the duel erections forming between them, nor the fact that he had been completely engulfed in Sherlock's famous greatcoat. Sherlock started it, with the deep rumbling chuckle that rumbled through John starting at his belly and radiating heat throughout his body. "What's so funny?"

 

"Kissing in the rain after an emotional confession." Sherlock arched a 'get it?' eyebrow and it set John off. "You may as well have been hanging upside down in a ridiculous costume." Sherlock laughing was a hell of a thing. Sherlock laughing whilst he was pressed so close set John on fire. 

 

"I didn't know you were paying attention during that film," John chortled. "Honestly, Sherlock. What is our life?"      

 

"A rom-com science-fiction crime drama, apparently." With that perfect description they were now holding onto each other more to remain upright through their laughter than anything else.

 

"Also you would be Spider Man," John pointed out, as they returned to the flat without any verbal representation of what they were doing. "You're the one that's all long thin limbs and rushing about with the tight clothes and secret identity." They climbed the stairs after shutting the street door fast and doing the same with the flat door.

 

"Secret identity?"

 

"Yeah," John retorted, raising his voice to be heard when he went into the cupboard containing the giant fluffy(expensive)towels Sherlock insisted upon. He couldn't say he hated them, especially now. Double especially now that Sherlock was naked again but in daylight that made him look like some sort of statue in the home of a Greek noble. "People think you're some sort of petulant, cold, posh psychopath, posing as a genius 'high functioning sociopath' with an unconventional way of fighting crime." As John was concentrating on being able to finish his thought whilst staring at his own personal living Adonis, Sherlock took one of the several towels John had just grabbed and began drying his husband as he peeled off his sodden pyjamas and dressing gown.

 

"And what am I really?" The amusement in his voice was a bit intoxicating.

 

"You're not a psychopath," John smirked, earning a firm slap on the arse.

 

"You're wrong," Sherlock said quietly, almost murmuring. 

 

"Sorry?" It felt a bit naughty just parading about the flat starkers as he went to retrieve a bottle of something from the kitchen at half six in the morning, but he couldn't be arsed at the moment. In an hour or so, he'd call in to the surgery and begin the long, arduous task of trying to make things right in earnest.

 

"I can't be Spider Man," Sherlock stated, having patiently waited for John to return, taking him in with those eyes in a manner that almost made John blush from the softness as well as the infusion of  _want_  in them. John uncorked the Moscato and poured it into the regrettably still clean glasses Sherlock had left on the table the night before. 

 

"How do you figure?" came John's query as he served Sherlock.

 

"You're the hero," Sherlock said simply, not breaking eye-contact and gently tapping his glass against a thoroughly stunned John's before taking a sip. Sherlock had to raise his eyebrows at John to remind him to take a drink too. He drained his glass, to Sherlock's adorably surprised face, refilled it and began working on the second. Sherlock caught up quickly then, almost before his husband was done, John snatched the glass out of his hand to join his own on the little table by John's chair.

 

He relished this part especially, the initial kiss, the prelude to all that had the potential to be. Sometimes it was gentle, sometimes playful, sometimes the adrenaline fueled during/post case rutting that would almost take place on the scene or in the cab ride home. But this was was his favourite. This was the pure passion at which Sherlock would normally turn his nose up. It was different with them, however. With them, he liked to think Sherlock understood why lonely housewives without the mindset or opportunity to experience this would read about others doing so. 

 

John tore away from Sherlock just enough to not fall over anything whilst leading him to their bed, still unmade and not yet cooled from sleep. Sherlock had stoked fires in both rooms and they burned warmly as John bade his love lay down on his belly to be worshipped. He turned on the lovely music Sherlock had made for him and started at his hairline, smoothing up the lazy black curls to place kisses and licks along it. He spent time in the areas he knew Sherlock was most sensitive, an inch behind his ear,  the bulge of his seventh Cervical Vertebra which, if he flicked his tongue back and forth over as he moved back up into Sherlock's hairline would produce the most delicious of uncontrollable, drawn out 'Oh's'. More than once, he almost made Sherlock come, fully clothed on the couch doing this whilst flicking his nipples through his shirt. Sherlock promised continued experimentation on that front, possibly involving that toy he'd given John that time.

 

But right now was for this, this slow, zig-zag pattern of oral and manual exploration through which he attempted to transfer even a fraction of how he felt. He spent an age on the lush, firm backside alone, kneading the silken, slightly downy globes, lightly pressing his teeth into the flesh, parting them to work on the immaculate, earthy pucker until his tongue could slip easily inside nearly to the root and Sherlock was making the sounds that signaled how he was barely restraining himself from begging. When he reached the heels of his feet, he had him turn over, their erections straining, pre-come beading until it would drip slowly, connecting them with a gossamer thread, drawing gasps from both of them when they lightly brushed as John positioned himself again to start at Sherlock's forehead. It was almost too easy to reduce his loquacious detective to babbling or even speechless with a few strategically applied kisses to his neck. Him not wearing a scarf and covering that long sparsely freckled expanse was a blatant seduction, as was snatching it off in public where John couldn't really do anything about it.

 

The memories of the many near-misses of public indecency caused John to have to settle for a moment, indulging in full body contact, pressing chest to chest against Sherlock whilst attempting to suppress the moans his thoughts and actions brought about. He tucked his face into Sherlock's neck and breathed him in, the spice and tobacco of his very lightly applied cologne, the slightly salty musk of his arousal, a hint of petrichor leftover from the rain. It almost didn't help calm John, especially after Sherlock brought his arms back around him, to return the embrace, narrow hips undulating slightly as if moving of their own accord. But, after a moment, he was able to continue. Taking the time to make each dusky nipple as hard as possible before advancing his descent.

 

By the time John had made it down and up one leg, then the other, completely avoiding yet coming so very close to the crux of those mile-long appendages, Sherlock  _was_  begging and slightly sweating. John soothed him, running his hands up the length of Sherlock, feeling every bump and hair and scar and patch of skin.

 

"I'll look after you, love. Hush, now." He started with Sherlock's bollocks, mouthing them individually, every once in a while, reaching up to give his nipple a pinch as Sherlock did all he could to keep those long fingers moving through John's cropped locks instead of grabbing at them and forcing his head where he wanted it to be. He knew John always fulfilled his promises, but wasn't one for patience as everyone knew. He tried hard, though, for John. Though the little shit knew that begging was one of John's hot buttons. Like anything else, however, Sherlock also knew when and how to apply it, as well as making sure he meant it.

 

Finally,  _finally_  John swallowed him down, slowly, tugging louder noises from Sherlock as he worked his tongue and gently sucked. John pushed his first three fingers from each hand into Sherlock's mouth one at a time, then two, then three, almost exactly how he'd open him, reveling in the vibrations of his deep-throated moans. He used the dampened digits to provide additional stimulation by way of Sherlock's sensitive nipples. John was positively high on the sound of Sherlock Holmes completely submerged in pleasure. He could  _almost_  forget his own extreme arousal. There was a slick spot on Sherlock's leg that threatened to end things for him too quickly as it eased his way in rutting against it, so he forcibly separated his body from his love's. John had plans for him that didn't include a simple shared orgasm.

 

John finally had Sherlock get the fingers of his right hand especially wet, so that he could get the longest one inside him and massage his prostate whilst stroking him unhurriedly, talking over the beautiful tones.

 

"John! I'm about to-"

 

"Yes. Yes do it, Sherlock. Come on, love!" The sweet sting of Sherlock's clipped nails digging into his back, the slow strokes of John's tongue along Sherlock's, the muffled near-screams being poured into his mouth as Sherlock spilled into his hand, onto his own stomach. John cleaned him with his mouth, avoiding over-stimulation by circumventing the main source and continuing to keep the secondary areas interested. He was pleased that Sherlock seemed surprised at his own continued state of tumescence. 

 

John made it a point to draw it out, to make it last as long as possible, to make sure Sherlock was begging again so he didn't notice. John didn't usually bottom. It was mostly because that was just how it worked out rather than preference. His throat became a bit tight at the realization of how much control Sherlock gave him, how difficult it was for Sherlock to have learned how important it was to restrict one's self then have the very base of your life-long convictions chipped away at until they could accommodate something else. So he made sure that beautiful brain was otherwise engaged as he slowly coaxed himself open enough to receive the rather poignant gift that was this man. And a gift it really was, for he had given it to no one that had appreciated what it was. That notion made everything blurry when he'd open his eyes. He kissed Sherlock, for all he was worth, soothing the frenzied man, trying to avoid his own tears. He wasn't quite successful with the latter.

 

"John," Sherlock almost whispered, in a way that made him draw reluctantly back. "It's alright, John. I'm not the least bit upset about it. I am, in fact, the happiest I've ever been in my life." Well. That was unexpected. He continued to caress his beloved, laying absent little kisses on the bits of him he could reach during the impromptu conversation.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 

"It means, that I've already received the greatest gift. It means that you've truly forgiven me."

 

"For what? I forgot the day we wed as if it was just any other day with a good memory as there's always at least one every day, even on the worst. I  _knew_  it was the twelfth of June for four years. Why the hell would I forget it on the fifth? And what does that have to do with forgiving you?"

 

"You know I often forget what dates  _people_ ," he said as if the word actually tasted bitter, "deem worthy of remembrance. But you, my dearest John, having forgotten why we chose that date in particular is the most perfect thing that could have happened on that date. In particular." Even now, through his guilt, love, and lust-fogged mind, John had to struggle. 

 

The enormity of the memory stunned him, making him glad he was already laying down.

 

He then seemed shocked back into action, renewing the showering of his affections with vigor. "Oh, God," John murmured. "Oh God! Oh my God!" He repeated variations of it until he had Sherlock doing the same, slowly lowering himself onto his husband's shaft and shamelessly letting the tears flow as Sherlock moved in him.

 

"My John," Sherlock panted sweetly, accepting John's tongue and tears, his own sliding back onto the pillow. Their bodies met, parted, and met again repeatedly, rhythmically, increasing the pace until it was nearly painful, which was what John wanted. It was the ache of muscles after a good, hard run, the burning in your lungs as you try to get enough air, the adrenaline ripping through your veins. Yes he was Sherlock's completely from long before either one of them was even able to admit it to themselves, let alone each other and the entire thing culminated in what turned out to be an orgasm of both body and soul; a catharsis of every bit of negative tension between them from the beginning of their time together. 

 

John was a realist despite his tendency toward the romantic. He was well aware that new tensions would build, would begin to fill up the empty places left by the old, but  _this_  was essentially starting from scratch.

 

And it was glorious.

 

When they'd finally calmed, long minutes later, their tears dried and remaining unspoken about as it was unnecessary, they lay in each other's arms, extending the perfect moment as long as possible. Of course marrying on that day didn't erase the memories of Sherlock stepping willingly off that roof, purposely making John watch. He'd acquired true PTSD in that moment. But, as of this instance, this purification, he was purged of the unnecessary pain surrounding it he'd carried around even until now.

 

Sherlock had rescheduled their special dinner at Angelo's when John had texted to say he would be working longer than he'd expected. He'd ordered the moo shu from John's favourite takeaway then. The timing was to be the same however, poised to begin exactly one hour after he'd texted. It gave them time to shower and dress after the expected activities of a young married couple on their anniversary. Sherlock had also arranged with Sarah for John to have at least the entire next day off, thus eliminating the need for John to bother with it. There were extremely few words, the afterglow lasting for hours, their symbiotic connection in place as usual through the starters and half of the main course. John noticed that Sherlock's phone had gone off three times starting when the main course was placed in front of them. He decided to show mercy. When it all came down to it, the romance was all well and good, the sex brilliant, but the Work was what they were meant to do, as a unit, for as long as possible. The manic light in his love's eyes when The Game was On, didn't hurt at all.

 

He'd speak to Mrs. Hudson about being able to have a dog in the house after the case was solved, anyway. Just in case any of the guilt returned.

 

 

 


End file.
